


Bewitched

by anxiouss_princess



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dad Lord Asriel, Dadriel, Gen, Lyra's World (His Dark Materials), Spells & Enchantments, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-19 10:47:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22309798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anxiouss_princess/pseuds/anxiouss_princess
Summary: Lyra hopelessly asks her alethiometer something, despite knowing it will not answer this specific question. That is until a mysterious witch makes herself known, saying she can help by casting a spell. Lyra accepts her offer.What could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Lord Asriel & Lyra Belacqua
Comments: 9
Kudos: 62





	Bewitched

**Author's Note:**

> For the HDM holiday exchange! I did my best askksjakjs
> 
> For @subtlesilvertongue from tumblr

Lyra slowly runs her thumbs over the surface of the alethiometer, feeling each rough edge and crevice against the pads of her fingers. She looks at it. Keeps looking, as if inspecting or trying to see if it can read her mind to an unanswered question that she does not want to ask aloud. 

_This isn’t something you ask the alethiometer,_ she can hear her own voice scolding in her head, or maybe it sounds like Pan’s—she doesn’t know. 

“It isn’t,” Pan answers her thoughts, leaving her to sigh in a frustrated huff. She rolls her eyes. 

“Well, turns out I’m too curious to care, if I’m being honest,” she blurts as she brings the object closer to her face, studying the symbols intensely as she mutters the words, “Alethiometer… does Lord Asriel care for me?” Pan audibly groans. She ignores him as she hopes the needle will start to shift. 

Instead the room chills as a gust of wind drapes over the room. Lyra feels a shiver roll down her spine, goosebumps coating her flesh as they start to form all over her skin. She notices the window is open, the curtains blowing wide and mystical looking. Ominous. Almost matching the darkness that paints the outside world just beyond the now opened window. It’s nearly pitch-black and threatening enough to suck an innocent soul into its vortex. Eating it alive, never to be seen again in the daylight. 

A younger woman emerges through the window, and she doesn’t appear ominous, however is haunting in a peculiar way. Very beautiful as her dark brunette hair falls just below her shoulders. She’s pale with striking features, particularly her cheekbones and jawline. Her eyes have shadows engulfing them or are perhaps sunken in. This makes the brilliant and vivid blues that are captured in her irises more remarkable, bordering on the lines of disturbing. Lyra can’t stop staring into these eyes; she’s entranced. 

“That alethiometer of yours isn’t going to answer you,” the mystery woman’s voice is sultry, almost more captivating than her eyes. “Not _that_ question at least.” 

“Told you so,” Pan comments quietly to her as he sits himself upon Lyra’s shoulder. She side-eyes him, huffing again through her nose. 

Lyra can’t help her shoulders sagging with a slow and melancholic sigh. “I figured it was worth a shot.” Her eyes are glued to her shoes as they shift side to side, the floor beneath her creaking. 

“I meant, the _alethiometer_ can’t. I didn’t say that _nothing else_ could.” The lady steps closer, eyes holding a glint of something to them. Lyra can’t tell what it is exactly, but she holds onto these words with all the hope she has left in her. Her eyes go wide with surprise as her posture broadens, getting excited. 

_“Really?_ You know how to help me?” her voice goes squeaky; enthusiasm evident. 

The woman before her smiles, nodding. “I do. It just involves a quick little spell,” she explains, getting closer to Lyra as she leans against the bed that she’s on. Her eyes are somehow even more vibrant up close, feeling as if they’re piercing through Lyra’s very soul. 

Lyra practically falls forward into the mattress, mouth gaping open. “You’re a _witch?”_ she asks in amazement, expression on her face not faltering in the least. 

Another smile spreads across the woman’s face, really accenting her beauty. Everything is smoother, more open. She almost looks flawless as the moonlight illuminates her skin shining through the window. Lyra can’t help but feel a sense of trust… and intrigue. 

Lyra leans in, her voice going soft and breathy as if she’s in on some top-secret plan (which she feels like she is, technically). “What kind of spell would you do?” The wonder is still dripping off her, especially her face. 

“It would have to be put _on you,”_ the witch admits, sitting herself on the bed next to her, “it will show you exactly how Asriel feels, once he sees you—without a sliver of a doubt,” her voice holds no doubts, either. Lyra can feel her anticipation sparkling from the inside out already, practically bursting through the seams in explosive fireworks. “Do you trust me?” 

Lyra nods. “Can you do it? I wanna do it,” her body language is screaming impatience and eagerness, barely wanting to wait a moment longer. She’s fidgeting and nearly bouncing off the walls. “I need to know. Please?” 

The witch grins yet again, but Lyra sees something confusing in her eyes this time too, like earlier. She decides not to dwell on it as the sorceress’ ice-cold hand connects with her forehead, remaining there for several moments. She feels a wave of energy fall over her, making her feel _warm_ yet _cold_ at the same time. Everything is fizzling and festering in her, all her pent-up energy overflowing and bleeding through. 

It’s all there, but suddenly it’s all gone, too. Everything swells into every part of her, even in her veins and blood stream… all for it to suddenly leave. She feels every piece and remainder of strength leave her body in waves, seeping out of her, escaping. As if she’s being drained until there is no warmth, no feelings. Only cold and being left limp, nearly lifeless. _Nearly._

The witch’s hand is still on her forehead as the wind bristles across the room in eerie howls. There’s a low hum that comes from the woman as she removes her hand from Lyra’s forehead, as if contemplating. So much is being perceived around her, but she can’t feel her body in order to initiate movement. She can’t speak. She can’t do anything but lie there, like a flaccid ragdoll. 

She’s aware of everything going on around her, which is odd. If anything, her perception to sound is even greater than it once was before. Everything is heightened, believe it or not—except for her ability to move her limbs. She’s beginning to wonder if she can even feel her chest rise and fall as she breathes—is she breathing? All is slowed down, like her body is moving at a snail’s pace. Her breathing, her heartbeat—she can barely detect any of it, as if she’s hardly there and in a fog. 

_Obviously you’re bloody breathing, otherwise this predicament would be a lot worse off. Think, Lyra!_

It’s an odd feeling what she’s experiencing, like she’s numb but can also sense everything. Like being picked up from the bed by the woman she has just met, her arms wrapping around her as she’s being lifted. She can also feel Pan being scooped up by a hard beak, an odd phenomenon that settles into her. Wings flutter away into the distance that mixes with the night wind, as the witch follows shortly thereafter, not too far behind.

The unknown lady’s skin still feels bitingly cold against her own, like a slight and sharp tinge that shocks her. _What are you doing? Where are you taking me? What the devil is going on?!_ This long stream of questions runs through her head relentlessly and without pause as she wants to shout them out loud. She’s frustrated that she can’t, and that everything remains limp. She feels her limbs dangling from the witch’s arms, her legs and own arms drooping over as they sway in the chilled air. Her head lolls backwards; her neck being supported by the young lady’s arms that are wrapped around her small form. 

She doesn’t know how long this will last, the mysterious witch clasping onto her as she flies into the deep and dreary night. The frosty wind blows through her hair in different directions, tickling her face. Her goosebumps were back, she can tell—hairs raising on the back of her neck as the air grows more frigid. As the wind grows in vigor. Her cheeks are warm, probably rosy, she assumes since she can’t see them (or anything for that matter). 

That’s the only sense that she is deprived of in this very moment, with herself paralyzed and her eyes closed. She wishes she could see the midnight sky glittering with stars, each one exceptional and dazzling in their own way. Sometimes Lyra would have this strange reoccurring dream—she was wrapped up in someone’s arms, some place she felt safe and warm. These arms held her up to the deep and endless night sky, showing her to the stars and the moon. She felt like she was flying, exploring. Like she could see the world. She felt happy and at peace when she would wake up. Occasionally she’d like to tell herself that was a memory of her being held by Asriel when she was a baby, to self-soothe. Lyra knows this is foolish, however, and knows that it’s just a meaningless dream her mind has been conjuring up. 

She tries to pretend, to daydream in this darkened state of mind that this is what is taking place now. Not being able to see, she decides she wants to imagine it herself. Make her own visions and reality. It is somewhat hard, feeling the slender and icy skin of the woman in question when she’s trying to be somewhere else, where someone else’s arms are much broader and warmer. The cold hard reality was literally clutching onto her. They continue to fly into the night as Lyra tries to imagine anything but the strange predicament that she’s in. 

_This must be a dream. I’m dreaming. I’m going to wake up soon, and this is all going to be behind me—just a peculiar and oddly vivid dream. This is not_ REAL!

She says these thoughts repeatedly in her head in a constant loop. There are also different words used that are stringed together in a variety of put together sentences— but it mostly holds the same meaning as her flustered mind rattles on and on. 

Time must be going slower for Lyra since everything feels decelerated, stretched out and sluggish. She waits patiently for something to shift, for something to be different—it would be easy to pick up on due to her heightened awareness (minus sight). 

When the wind starts to become less harsh, or the air not as bitter or stifling—she assumes they are finally closer to the ground and soon landing. She feels a slight jolt, imagining the woman who’s holding her just planted her feet upon the ground. She’s jostling and swaying in these lean arms as she starts to walk to whatever the destination is that the witch has in mind for them. A crunching noise catches her ears that comes from below, where she pictures the witch woman’s small and petite feet submerging themselves in a pale blanket of snow. With the moon and the stars bouncing off the surface just perfectly enough where it’s like an endless supply of miniscule diamonds that are strewn about the white snowfall. 

The scenery conjuring up in her head is abruptly cut short, hearing voices cutting through her mind. One in particular grasps her attention and is very hard to miss with its bitterness and gravel that pierces right through Lyra’s ears, shattering her snowy images to a vague blackness. 

“What the hell do you want?” Asriel’s voice is cold and unwelcoming, practically spitting at the woman. She isn’t sure if she feels a chill because of the winter air or because of his brutal tone that isn’t even directed towards her. 

“I come bearing gifts,” the witch’s voice is calm and cool, which sounds a bit odd with her honey-like tone that practically sticks a hold onto Lyra’s ears. She can feel her arms that are coiled around her extend forwards, as if presenting her as said gift. _Please,_ Lyra scoffs to herself bitterly. _As if he would ever see_ me _as a_ gift. 

Asriel lets out a huff of impatience, hot and vicious as it hisses through the winter night air. Lyra almost feels it herself and the scorching intensity rolling off him. She imagines his face hardening into an unreadable expression, while his eyes blaze in a fierce and nasty manner that can rip anyone open and bleed them dry and raw. “What is the meaning of this?” There's a clear image of him clenching his jaw clench as he speaks through gritted teeth that flashes through her mind immediately. 

“I am here to send a message, on behalf of the Lake Lubana clan of witches,” her voice is soft yet firm as Lyra is being shifted in the woman’s arms, slowly moving forward to further taunt Asriel. _“You_ break one of _our_ hearts, _we_ break _yours._ Simple as that,” she hisses. “Take her.” 

There’s an unsettling silence that falls over the two of them, and it makes Lyra internally cringe to herself. If her heart rate were normal and not slowed down to a ridiculously low rate, she would probably be able to hear it in her ears and head right about now. “You better start making some damned sense before _I_ break one of your _necks.”_ There are loud footsteps that are then hurdling in their direction, loud and panging through Lyra’s eardrums. “Better yet—maybe I should just start with _you,_ and hunt down _every last one of—”_

“Don’t be daft,” the witch interrupts, tone completely indifferent and unaffected by his now passionate and venomous rage, merely backing up in a swift manner, away from the man before her. Lyra’s eyes would widen right about now if they could. “Have you no sense or reason?” There are almost traces of _amusement_ to her tone. Lyra can vaguely see a hint of a smile playing on her lips, or what she imagines at least. Seeing everything from the back of your eyelids—nothing—can get very dull after a while. 

“Unhand the girl _at once,_ before I actually do crush _each and every bone in your neck!”_ His voice is intense and biting, ringing through Lyra’s small ears. Stelmaria growls. 

“I’m _shaking in my boots,”_ she responds, as Lyra can feel herself walking forward. The temperature rises steadily, suddenly at a comfortable and toasty level as they venture indoors, presumably. “Really, I am, despite the fact witches don’t even _wear_ boots. However,” she continues, the bottoms of her feet making a light tapping noise that echo throughout—wherever they are in that moment, “I know you’re not going to lay _one finger_ on me as long as I have _the girl_ in my arms,” she finishes, sounding confident in her words, stopping in her tracks as they stand still. Lyra is no longer nudging about, so she knows the young witch has ceased walking. 

She’s placed on a soft surface, seemingly a bed as her slack body collapses and sinks against the mattress. There are brusque footsteps now, barreling forward along with a guttural and feral shout. The noise is shrill and awful, sounding as if it’s ripping Asriel’s throat apart in jagged shreds of flesh, Stelmaria howling with him.

Just when Lyra thinks things couldn’t get any more bizarre, she hears this severe choking sound that is _not_ coming from Asriel. It’s rough, raw, and throaty as the young witch desperately tries to properly breathe. There’s a scraping noise from against the floorboards in the near distance—possibly her feet being dragged—then _WHAM._ A thunderous collision with what Lyra can only assume is the woman being thrown up against the wall, with Asriel’s hand wrapping around her throat. Squeezing the life out of her slowly as her white, porcelain doll-like skin maybe stains itself into a faint tint of blue. 

Frantic smacks follow, which sound like hands hitting heavily clothed material. Lyra assumes it’s the lady pushing at Asriel, against the outfit he’s wearing as he has her suspended into the air or pressing hard against the wall. Maybe she hits his face or scratches, as she hears grunts and growling noises from Asriel that come off as almost feral. Lyra wishes she could _see_ what’s unfolding just beyond her closed eyelids, so she doesn’t have to imagine and dream everything up herself, which is exhausting to say the least. 

A wilder and more final-sounding grunt noise comes, following with a massive thud to the floor that sends a vibration through the bed. As soon as she feels this jolt, an entirely different one goes rippling through her. It isn’t blatantly obvious at first, but she feels _something._ As if there’s a crack that’s been pried opened, leaking her energy and life back into her bones. It doesn’t surge through her instantaneously, but all she can do is think, _I’m finally going to wake up soon._

Now there’s only silence, other than Asriel’s heavy panting and unsteady breaths. Despite not being able to see, she feels his eyes on her. She’d squirm uncomfortably if she could move, but the only thing she can do is listen to the stillness, laying there motionless and in the dark. 

There’s an uncomfortable energy that hangs itself over the room as Asriel begins to pace. His footsteps are loud and booming—he always was strong-footed—the noise becoming a nuisance to Lyra’s ears. This energy sinks itself into the pit of her stomach, growing more nervous as he continues to pace, gruff breathing and noises coming from his nose and mouth. She can practically feel his mind reeling in this great intensity, and it’s rolling off in waves and affecting _her._ She has never witnessed (or heard, technically) so much nervousness exuding from this man before. It makes the feelings almost pass on to her as if they were contagious.

There’s a sigh that is laced in frustration and impatience. “Lyra, get up,” he finally barks.

Lyra mentally rolls her eyes. _Seriously? Let me get right on that, then._

“Lyra,” his tone sharpens and stings her ears, “stop it with these nonsense games at once.” Footsteps make their way closer to her, but then there’s a long and painful pause. A lingering and shaky breath hisses from his nose. The bed shakes; probably Asriel rattling it, tugging at the mattress with his hands, clasping at the fabric. _“Lyra!”_ His shout is nearly deafening. Stelmaria also roars ferociously, blending with his yelling. 

“I don’t see Pan, Asriel,” her low voice is soothing, some of Lyra’s nervousness dying away with the syrupy texture of her tone. “I think—” 

_“Don’t—”_ he snaps, moving closer to Lyra. She can feel his presence beside her as the bed slightly dips. “You’d better get up, before you’re in more trouble than you’re already in, young lady.”

Lyra starts to vaguely remember little details that took place during her and the witch’s flight earlier. When she was in the middle of her daydreaming, there was a bit of a rummaging through her clothes—probably the woman’s bird daemon putting Pan in her undercoat pocket or something to keep him hidden from view. 

_“Damnit_ Lyra Belacqua, you will _open your eyes!”_ Hands are grasping at her shoulders, shaking her desperately and roughly. The sheer volume of his voice is overwhelming, how tight his grip is. She wonders if she’s going to bruise where his hands squeeze. 

She starts to gain a little more feeling in her limbs, not feeling as numb—but still unable to make any movements. Not even a twitch.

“Asriel, you’re being foolish,” Stelmaria’s voice cuts through like a sharp dagger, and Lyra feels Asriel slump at the impact of the words. Two of his fingers press against her neck, most likely to feel for a pulse. There’s a long and drawn out breath as he repositions his fingers, like he didn’t accept what he found in the other spot. “Asriel…” Stelmaria tries again. “Stop this.” 

_Did he not feel my pulse? How long does this spell take to wear off?!_

She knows it’s wearing off, judging by how her body reacted to the witch dying. The feelings that spread through her, subtle but noticeable. Her nerves tingling and slowly coming back to life, a new warmth spreading that didn’t leave her as cold. The momentum is building, she just can’t get there quite yet. She needs some more time. 

_“No!”_ Asriel’s roaring tone leaves Lyra’s ears buzzing. 

His fingers move again to her wrist. He stays still for a moment; the room quiet as he tries to find a pulse. After the brief pause, he roughly lets go, letting her arm flop beside her as he shouts—a deep snarl exploding from his throat. 

_Why is this taking so long?!_ The words are impatiently flickering throughout Lyra’s head, red and fiery, growing in intensity the more she wants to leap up from her still position. Along with other thoughts such as _Wake up!_ Or _Move!_ They’re frantic and bleeding together into mad incoherence, not even resembling words anymore. 

“Lyra, stop this right now, it isn’t remotely funny.” His hand is now hovering over her mouth and nose. It slightly tickled Lyra’s face, a funny sensation. He holds it there until he lets out an angry holler, hitting the bed forcefully as Lyra feels its shakes and hears the whacking against the mattress. 

Loud crashes start to ensue. Excessive, one after the other, and some happening all at once. It’s rough and chaotic, relentless and ruthless. There’s possibly glass involved, and other objects colliding with the floor, and maybe even the walls, hurtling into each other. It creates an overall ugly sound, like a broken and screwed up harmony that no one was ever meant to hear. Lyra doesn’t want to hear it. She wants to start waking up faster, rather than at this _snail pace._

She feels something twisting deep inside of her as Asriel continues his antics. _Why is he acting like this? Does he care? He’s never shown any traces of caring before._ She wants to wake up and tell him everything’s okay, that she’s fine, but there is also a morbid part of her that wants to keep listening and see what else will happen. It almost reminds her of the times she would “fall asleep” in strange places just so he would carry her off to bed. If she continued pretending to sleep, sometimes he would sit with her for a moment in silence. It was as if he watched over her briefly, before he’d let out a melancholic sigh and leave. She would bask in the moments where he would tuck her into bed, take off her shoes just like a parent would do. She had the same thoughts pricking into her mind then that she does now: _does he care, after all?_

His fists resume slamming into things, objects falling or being thrown. So much anger and painful sounds escaping him. _Smack, crash, smack, crash._ The noises only increase in volume and intensity, even in speed as his yells also grow more hostile and ragged. His breathing all over the place. With how passionate and ferocious his shouts are, Lyra can only imagine how raw and scratchy his throat is at this point. Picturing his silver-streaked hair a wild mess as it falls over his flushed, sweaty face. 

“Asriel— _enough!”_ Stelmaria’s voice again, halting all the hectic noises. 

All Lyra can hear then is his breathing, raspy and haggard. He keeps panting, the noise sounding strange to her ears. The panting doesn’t stop. His breaths seem to be getting more erratic as time passes. One of his gasps at one point ends up breaking off into a quiet sob as if he’s trying to stifle it. If Lyra’s eyes could open and move, they would probably be going wide right about now. Her mind is reeling, unable to string together one coherent thought other than— _what?_

She’s soon taken out of that thought and instead taken into a set of arms, wrapping around her as they scoop her up in a despairing hold. “Lyra, please,” his voice breaks as he tightens his grip. “Don’t do this to me… _don’t.”_ He starts rocking her back and forth, gently pressing his head against hers. Lyra’s heart lurches in her throat. “I’m sorry, alright? I get it, I’m a lousy person and deserve this pain, but _God…”_ His hot tears trickle down the side of her cheek as they fall from his eyes. 

His body begins to shake as he erupts into gentle sobs, and Lyra’s shakes with him as she’s still being held close. _Wake up, wake up, wake up._ She keeps screaming this in her head over and over, basically into the dark void of nothingness. Why isn’t she waking up faster? Why can’t she _move_ yet? 

_Try to move your hand, start small._

She concentrates with an extreme intensity, picturing her hand in her head—maybe she should start with her fingers? Or _a_ finger. Like her index or thumb. Yeah, she thinks she’s going to try her index finger first. 

She puts all her mental energy into it, picturing her finger and attempting to move it. Or even make it twitch—anything. She needs to wake up. 

She’s so lost in her thoughts and trying to get herself to _bloody move,_ she almost forgets and is slightly surprised by the fact that Asriel is still clinging to her. He’s quiet now, but still sniffling occasionally. It’s a soft noise that she most likely wouldn’t have been able to hear if he wasn’t right beside her face or her ear. He runs a hand gently through her hair, continuing with the swaying motions. 

“Asriel, you have to let her go.” Stelmaria’s voice again. 

“No,” he sounds broken and breathless. Holds onto her even tighter, sounding so unlike himself as Lyra grows only more confused, her heart twisting in her throat more intricately. He is shaking his head now; she can feel it as it’s still leaning against her own. “I will do _no such thing.”_ Stelmaria sighs loudly, a large gust of air that blows between her sharp and jagged teeth. 

Lyra’s chest gets lighter, making it easier to breathe. Her breaths become deeper, more normalized. She hopes that Asriel will pick up on this small detail. She purposely sucks in a deep, sharp breath as soon as her chest is free and easier to move. Asriel jumps, hands seizing her arms to pull her back, probably to look at her face. 

“Lyra?” his voice cracks, and her vision is unfocused and hazy as it tries to make out his face clearly. She doesn’t even know when her eyes opened in the first place. 

“Hmm?” Her throat feels funny and loose as she tries to speak. When her eyes finally fixate clearly enough on Asriel she can see the tear stains streaked across his splotchy red face. His blood shot eyes search hers, as if disbelieving that she is awake and trying to find out if it’s a trick. 

His eyes widen, filling with more unshed tears, face open and vulnerable as he squeezes onto her arms. He searches her, as if to see if she has any wounds or anything of that nature—but then Pan pokes his head out of Lyra’s shirt. Asriel laughs, some tears slipping from his eyes, but a genuine smile lifts his face. 

“You’ve been crying.” Her small hand reaches up to him, wiping the tears off his wet cheeks. He stiffens at the touch, body going completely rigid as he snaps his eyes shut. 

He grabs her hand quickly, gently removing it from his face. “This…” He clears his throat, not even looking directly at the girl, “is getting a bit too sentimental for my tastes,” he utters as he drops her hand back to her side. He has a mournful and reluctant look to him despite his words—if she looks hard enough, she can almost see the apology written in his icy blue eyes. 

It’s obvious to Lyra he’s trying to harden himself and build his fortress of walls back up to block her out, yet again. Just like he usually does. But oddly enough, she’s okay with it (for now at least). She doesn’t mind in this very moment, because her pent-up anger throughout her twelve years of life lightened its load on her shoulders somewhat. She isn’t angry. She knows now that she had in fact deeply rooted herself within the splintering cracks of these walls of his, plaguing his heart like a poisonous venom already. The fortress was merely a useless tactic to make himself feel more at ease, despite it being in vain. Lyra knows better now. 

The witch may have been deceitful with her tactics and how she placed her spell on her. However, there was something she _was_ truthful about: she had in fact answered her most important question that she always wanted to know. Now that it was finally answered, Lyra’s heart feels about a hundred pounds lighter as it beats more freely and peacefully in her chest. 


End file.
